They called the flower the Whore’s Rose, and they had found it first in the Brazilian rainforest, chasing rumours of its unusual effects until they found the sole grove in which it grew.  They had taken cuttings, and with decades of careful cultivation they had concentrated and amplified its effects.

 

The flower looked much like any rose, but its scent was unusual.  To men, it smelled pleasant, nothing more.  To women, it sent the reproductive system into overdrive. 

 

In its original state, the aroma would make women amorous, improve their fertility, and cause some leakage of colostrum from the nipples.

 

After cultivation, the effects were rather more dramatic.

 

They tested it first on the laboratory secretary, Raven, who had worked there for a year blissfully unaware of the true project they were developing.  They had a bouquet of Whore’s Rose delivered to her at her desk by a male courier.  Blushing at the assumption of them being sent by a secret admirer, Raven made the mistake of inhaling deeply, and only afterwards saw the little card attached to the roses which read, “Because we think you’ll make a good little slut.”

 

At that point, she stopped finding it easy to think.  She felt her nipples harden, and her pussy wetten and start to throb as her labia engorged.  Her cheeks and neck flushed, and she was breathing quickly.  Her tits felt like they were swelling in her blouse, suddenly painfully oversized for her bra cups, and she frantically undressed, flinging away her shirt and bra until her breasts were bare.

 

They were swollen with *milk*, she realised.  They hadn’t magically grown, just... filled up.  Milk was leaking from them.  Her breasts felt painfully full - more udders than tits now.  She squeezed one, and squealed as milk squirted in a jet from her nipple.  Then she moaned - squeezing her breast had felt so *good*.  She squeezed it again, harder, and her pussy gave an answering throb of overwhelming need.

 

Falling from her desk chair to her knees, she crawled out to find an open area of floor, and pulled off her skirt and panties, which let her sink her fingers into her fuckhole and begin urgently finger-raping herself.  It felt so good, but the more she did it, the more she needed.  The smell of the roses surrounded everything and she couldn’t think at all.

 

By the time the men she worked for came out to see the results of their handiwork, Raven was mewling pathetically with the need to be fucked.  Her whole body was telling her that nothing mattered except being impregnated, and the only thing in her head was that she couldn’t cum until someone ejaculated in her pussy, and she would do *anything* to cum...

 

The men laughed at her, and took pictures, and then took out their cocks and surrounded her.  Raven would be like this for as long as she could smell the Whore’s Rose, and continue to be like this for a good 24 hours after her exposure ended.  They would all get many turns in each of her holes.  Better yet, the Rose was addictive, and once they released Raven from it, she would soon be back, fully rational and filled with shame at how she had acted, yet begging for another chance to smell it, offering to do any perverted act if only she could have another Rose...

 

In time, they would let her into the Playpen they were constructing downstairs, a little room where Raven could play naked with all the other girls they were going to give Roses to - a little enclosure, fenced in with Rosebushes, where all their new pets could writhe and masturbate and lick each other’s pussies constantly until their new masters had a use for them.

 

(THE END)